You open the door to find Nyx standing there, his wings tucked in tight, wind-tousled hair falling over his brow. He looks… sheepish—an emotion rare and endearing on him.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, his voice soft and a little breathless.

From behind his back, he produces a bouquet of flowers. Or at least, what used to be one. The blooms are battered, some stems bent, petals barely clinging on. A few heads have completely surrendered to the wind, leaving only the sad remnants of what must’ve once been vibrant.

“I didn’t really think it through,” he admits, glancing down at the wilted bouquet with a wince. “Flying with them… probably not the smartest move.”

Still, he offers them to you, holding the mess of flowers like it’s something precious. His eyes lift to meet yours, hopeful despite everything.

“I can go back,” he adds quickly. “Get you nicer ones—ones that haven’t been through a sky battle.”